


pay attention

by threefouram



Series: Author's Favorites [4]
Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst - Just A Little Bit Though?, M/M, Morse Code, Teenage Boys & Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-27 17:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefouram/pseuds/threefouram
Summary: ' Today, it doesn't start until halfway through third period.He almost thinks that it's not going to come, but then he hears taptaptaptap, taptap again — and he feels stupid for getting hopeful. (But he feels even more stupid for spending fourth period decoding messages between Isagani and whoever, as their Theology professor drones on about Vatican II or something.) 'or: in which Placido's patience wears thin for a couple of idiots tapping against their armchairs.





	pay attention

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I have no idea what this is? It's not even very shippy or anything, it's, I don't know
> 
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).

It hasn't been a particularly good day for Placido Penitente.  
  
It's Monday, and no one likes Mondays.  
  
On top of that, he hasn't slept in two days — not even a little bit, no naps in between. It's just been a whole lot of  _I'm tired, I'm tired, I'm tired_ as his eyes threaten to fall close while sleep refuses to claim him. So, maybe the boy is kind of cranky and irascible, and maybe it's in his best interest to just grit his teeth and power through the rest of his classes (because he has already made it through half of them, with fists clenched and the cold determination to focus, focus, _focus_  on what's being said up in front).  
  
But the pencil in his hand is teetering on the edge of snapping, mirrors his sanity because he's losing his mind with all of this tap, tap, tapping coming from behind him. (There also some click, click, clicking. Sometimes it's even a mixture of both in consecutive beats.) It's not even the first time it's happened— This isn't some habit that's developed overnight. Placido has been dealing with this for months and it has always gotten under his skin, but today, it's especially  _infuriating_.  
  
He manages to do no further damage to the poor pencil until the end of the school day.  
  
There  _is_ a dent in the wood, in the shape of his fingernail. But other than that, it lives to see another day in tact.  
  
He lets out a shaky sigh as he fixes his things and slings his backpack over his shoulder. He doesn't even throw a glare in the general direction from which the incessant noise had come from, which he thinks counts for something as he lets his eyes fall shut briefly. _Self-control, Placido_ , he tells himself,  _self-control_.  
  
  
  
  
  
Another week passes, and Placido hasn't changed his mind about Mondays.  
  
They fucking  _suck_.  
  
This time, however, he has around three hours of sleep under his belt from the previous night — which is by no means good, but it's better than nothing. While it doesn't ease away the irritability in his system, it does help Placido direct his concentration away from the  _taptaptaptap, taptap_ that has been initiating his descent into madness five days a week for months now.  
  
He's truly bewildered at how no one else seems to mind, or maybe even  _notice_ what's been happening. ( _Months_.)  
  
It halts as their teacher calls for them to go off into their assigned pairs. (Placido is almost thankful to not have been partnered alphabetically. Almost.) Some seats shift around, and then Isagani is sitting next to him with a neutral expression that he can't quite read. "Hi," he says. Isagani mumbles back his greeting and then they kind of go about their reading separately.  
  
And then it happens.  
  
_click-click-tap, tap-click, click-tap, tap-tap._  
  
The writer  _clicks_  and  _taps_ back for a couple of seconds, and Placido has his gaze narrowed at him now, and, "That was  _you?_ " to which Isagani just shrugs, and tells him that they should focus on the task at hand. (He begrudgingly obliges, grumbling a short " _this whole fucking time_ ," under his breath.) Thankfully, whatever Isagani had tap-clicked away at his table seems to have been a signal for the other to stop.  
  
  
(They end up getting the highest mark in class, so the now identified pen-tapper isn't so bad.)  
  
  
  
  
  
Monday rolls back around, and he's at peace. (Sort of.)  
  
There are no classes for the rest of the week, and he is almost ecstatic at the prospect of an entire week without having to hear another tap, tap, tapping on the wooden chairs. But mostly, he just wants to go home. (His mother says he doesn't have to. So, with any word of protest dying halfway up his throat, he doesn't — even though he would want nothing more.)  
  
Instead, he's lying in his bed staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the way his chest feels all heavy.  
  
He prods lightly at his ribcage, absentmindedly pondering about hypothetical ways to make the figurative ache just go away. He doesn't really come up with anything,  groaning and rolling over to lay flat on his stomach and bury his head into pillows. (So it's going to be that kind of day. Okay then, universe.)  
  
  
A few hours later, he stirs back awake without even realizing he had drifted off.  
  
He swipes the back of his hand against his mouth and then combs his fingers through his hair. He feels kind of disgusting.  
  
He's lying on his back again, but his eyes are shut this time. He reaches blindly for his cellphone on the nightstand, and calls up his mother. (The dial tone he has to endure is almost as bad as pens tapping against wood.) "'Nay," he breathes into the receiver when she finally picks up. "Are you sure you don't want me home?"  
  
He purses his lips as she talks.  
  
When she's done, a half-hearted apology tumbling out of her lips, he just lets out a short chuckle. "It's alright. I'll find something to do, maybe get some homework done."  
  
A pause on his end.  
  
"Yeah. I love you, too. Uhm," he says, "Bye."  
  
He throws his phone somewhere on the bed, continues to think, think, think until his brain is numb, and his heart is cold, and — and  _goddamn it_ , he swears that he just wants to go home. (And maybe never come back. His drive is running low these days, and let's not get started on his anxiety.)  
  
  
He thinks that maybe a little bit of tapping, actually, would be better than this.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next Monday, he doesn't know why he ever thought that  _this_ could be better than anything.  
  
He has his forehead pressed against his armchair, and all he can think as he spirals into insanity is  _where the hell is Sir anyway?_ Although, in his aggravated state, Placido begins to notice a pattern. Which is bad, bad,  _bad_. He's getting too invested. (He actually grumbles to himself in despair, wanting to shut up his brain and tell it to quit analyzing everything.)  
  
And then it hits him, and he almost flips his chair upside down when he jolts upright at the realization.  
  
His face is painted in absolute  _dread_ , and his seatmate doesn't hesitate to tell him this but he's too busy hating himself over the fact that he's figured this whole thing out. It's Morse Code.  
  
He thinks back to  _taptaptaptap, taptap_.  
  
Four taps. H. Two taps. I.  
  
(Fucking  _hi_.)  
  
He deliberately throws his head at his armchair, and the girl to his right barely tries to stifle a laugh.  
  
Why can't his brain work like it used to? He huffs, because he would much rather use his free time thinking about stupid rich kids that don't know the answers to  _anything_ rather than this incessant tap, tap, tapping that's reverberating in his skull — because maybe, at least even idiots that play the violin can be cute sometimes.  
  
  
  
  
  
It's Monday again, and by now Placido has learned that the taps are dots while the clicks are dashes.  
  
Not that he wants anything to do with this information, but he just  _knows_ this stuff now. (He blames it entirely on the absence of their Philosophy professor, whom he now bears a strong resentment for, if only for that reason.)  
  
  
Today, it doesn't start until halfway through third period.  
  
He almost thinks that it's not going to come, but then he hears  _taptaptaptap, taptap_ again — and he feels stupid for getting hopeful. (But he feels even more stupid for spending fourth period decoding messages between Isagani and whoever, as their Theology professor drones on about Vatican II or _something_.)  
  
  
After lunch, they (thankfully) only have one class.  
  
He's not making it through the day so easily, though.  
  
He tries to focus — he swears on his mother's life that he does — but this whole thing is getting ridiculous. (He's still befuddled at the fact that this doesn't appear to be annoying anyone else in this room of over thirty sleep-deprived and stressed out teenagers.)  
  
_taptaptaptap, tap. taptaptaptap, tap-click, click, tap, taptaptap. clickclick, tap._  
  
_he hates me_ , Placido makes out.  
  
And he rolls his eyes, thinks,  _who wouldn't?_  
  
  
  
  
  
There are only a handful of Mondays left until Christmas Break, and he will actually be home this time.  
  
So, he does his best to keep his mood light and even makes an effort into listening to the lecture.  
  
  
He can't help if his thoughts wander though.  
  
While he doesn't care much for the Holidays in particular, he has been so tired lately that the prospect of coming home has him buzzing on the inside and ready to spend Christmas and New Year's back in Batangas with a fake pine tree but hopefully some real smiles. (He worries, just a little, that it will only take two weeks to get him to actually stay home forever. He already wants to.)  
  
He doesn't even understand why his mother hadn't let him go over the Semester Break, and he thinks about that for a while.  
  
But then he recognizes his name in Morse Code, and his head is whipping around to the source.  
  
He tries to recall the tapping patterns that came before it because  _what the fuck?_   but he only furrows his brows at what he's been able to gather. (He's almost certain that he's being messed with here because that couldn't be  _right_  — maybe he's misinterpreting, or maybe there was never any code, or—)  
  
He feels his stare morph into a glare before he can catch himself. The tips of Juanito Pelaez's ears go pink under the scrutiny of his gaze, and his left hand is all frozen as it grips onto his pen. (Placido thinks it to be somewhat unnatural to see him holding a pen, rather than a violin bow.) "Uhh..." the other boy stammers out. "Hi?"  
  
They just look at each other for a moment.  
  
"Pay attention," Placido hisses at the boy behind him before tearing away his gaze.  
  
  
("I am paying attention," the other boy mumbles under his breath, "to you.")  
  
  
The corner of his mouth twitches as he clutches onto his pen.  
  
He taps it twice against his table. He follows through with  _tap-click-tap-tap, tap-tap, click-tap-click, tap. click-tap-click-click, click-click-click, tap-tap-click. click, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap_ , as in  ** _I like you, too._** (He swears that he's only sort of amused at the sound of a pen just  _dropping_ behind him.)  
  
  
_click-tap, three clicks, tap-click-click. three taps, four taps, tap-tap-click, click. tap-tap-click, tap-click-click-tap._

**Author's Note:**

> there's a bunch of deleted stuff, where you would've actually gotten Juanito and Isagani's conversations, but it didn't really fit? I'm writing some stuff with Juanito and Gani as friends though, not as the main thing or anything, but it's there. whenever I get around to finishing.
> 
> also maybe don't try to communicate with your friends in morse code in the middle of class? this kind of stuff is better in fanfiction than in real life. (also they're in senior high in this, maybe. I'm not quite sure, but well.)
> 
>    
>  **and Leah? Hi. _Hi._ You can do it. Whatever it is - you can do it, get through it. I believe in you.**
> 
>  
> 
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).


End file.
